The Morning After
by bethmovedon
Summary: Harry wakes up with a splitting headache, memories from the night before an aching blur. Implied slash. It amuses me. HarrySlytherin (written as Draco)


Author's Note: This is a short fic that I promised soccer-chick250 ages ago. 

The Morning After

Consciousness gradually seeped into Harry's fuzzy mind, quickly followed by a creeping ache. The ache worsened, eliciting a quiet moan; his head was going to explode. After one attempt at movement, he froze, fearing his brains were going to splatter the ceiling. Vertigo whipped through his aching head, resulting in a nausea that was nearly enough to force him to get up and try to make it to the bathroom, but he rode it out, trying not to breathe too hard for fear his lungs would vibrate too hard against other protesting internal organs. 

When the shooting pain subsided to the point where he thought he could move without serious injury, Harry made a tentative shift of limbs toward the edge of the bed. He risked peeking an eye open to get his bearings; the inky blackness that met his sight was at once a relief and a source of panic. Was he blind? Had he suffered an injury of some sort? Is that why his head was pounding? 

He felt his foot touch thick carpeted floors; the fact that his floors were hardwood almost gave him pause, but he focused on his body's journey to verticality. Harry slowly pushed himself into the upright position using his right foot as an anchor. A double wave of dizziness and nausea washed over his senses, and again he froze, cold sweat popping out on his forehead. It subsided a moment later, just enough for him to retrieve his wand from the bedside table in preparation for the familiar hangover curing spell (how many times had he used it on Ron?), but his blind gropes met only thin air. Had he moved his furniture around while drunk? Slowly, his eyes widened: two important details hit him squarely in the gut: 

First, he was not in his flat. 

Second…he was naked.

The almost comfortable slight panic he had felt was growing into a fierce dread. He crawled around on the floor in the dark, making slow progress due to the painful darts behind his eyes, he finally found a robe. He refused to acknowledge the fact that the material was an expensive heavy velvet, rather than the usual blend of cotton and polyester. Unfortunately he was still without his wand, so he started shuffling across the carpet, searching for a wall that would inevitably lead him to an exit.

A sound issued from his left, coming from the direction of the bed he'd just crawled out of. It sounded like a soft snore. Harry's heart sped up, forcing blood to pump faster through his system, not necessarily a good thing when nursing the Migraine From Hell, and his shuffling turned into an all-out run. He had barely got going when "OOF!" he ran straight into the wall. 

The mysterious snores ceased, and Harry felt bile rise in his throat. The night before was a blank. He didn't know where he was, who he was with or what he had done. Or who. Harry forced that thought to the back of his mind. Suddenly, after a sigh, his unseen bed partner's breathing again evened out.

Harry's movements were erratic and random as he scrabbled around for a doorknob. Relief flooded through him when his fingers closed around the metal knob, to be immediately replaced by panic at the sudden electric shock that sparked blue from his fingertips causing Harry to emit an embarrassing girlish squeak. Harry stood stock still when the sound reverberated in the room. When there was no pause in his companion's breathing, save a muffled snort, he grasped the knob again, gently rotated his wrist and pulled. 

Light snuck into the room as the door--on thankfully well-oiled hinges--swung open. It touched on the sleeping form in the bed, but aside from a pale, long-fingered hand, the stranger was engulfed in a large down comforter. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry crept into the strange hallway, breathing shallow as he attempted to not only stay quiet, but keep the pounding in his head from forcing his battered brain to leak out of his ears. The level of opulence here was almost indecent. Dark green silk covered walls that boasted impressive tapestries and paintings. Knowing nothing about art, his eyes merely skimmed over them, stuttering once on a painting of a huge serpent that was hissing and snapping, coming to rest on an open door only one doorway away from the room he'd just exited. 

__

Thank Merlin, Harry thought to himself, _a bathroom_. He fought down the nausea, as his bladder desperately needed to be emptied first. He freed himself from the voluminous velvet robes, sighing in near-ecstasy as some of the mistakes from last evening left his aching body

When he finished, his blurred vision managed to focus in on what he was peeing into. He blinked hard, then stared again. Yes, it was a toilet…but it was a very shiny dark green toilet. He snickered, then paused. Who in their right mind would want a green toilet? Or a hissing snake portrait? Slowly, realization dawned. He was in the home of a Slytherin!  


Gagging, Harry made haste in readjusting his robes. _Wait a minute. These aren't my robes_, Harry thought. He looked down. _These robes were somewhat…butch for a girl_. _Oh, God. It's Millicent Bulstrode. _

He scurried back to the bedroom, shucking the velvet along the way, and groped for his wand or robes, he didn't care which. With his wand he could disapparate; with his robes, he could run screaming into the streets. In the middle of his frantic search the sudden quiet stilled his movements.

"Harry, love, come back to bed. It's cold." A voice whispered. 

"I really need to get going, ma'am," Harry replied.

He didn't hear bedsprings creak, but he felt a presence move closer to him. A hand touched his naked back. Small nails scraped lightly down his spine and gooseflesh scattered across Harry's sensitised skin. He forcibly reminded himself that this was Millicent Bulstrode touching him and edged away.

"Er--I really need to--erm--get home." Harry tried to continue his attempt at a retreat, but hands snaked around his waist from behind and pulled him close. Flesh pressed against his…

Wait. 

That was--

Was that--?

This certainly wasn't Millicent Bulstrode…

Author's Note--the sequel: It seems unfinished, but I don't plan on adding to it for awhile unless I get some true inspiration. I love feedback, so review if you have a moment; constructive criticism is welcome, thoughtful reviews appreciated, squees and netspeaking reviews enjoyed immensely. Thank you. 


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